Life
The Enigmatic Echoes
The Enigmatic Echoes Chapter 1: The Invitation The day started like any other for Detective Amelia Sullivan. The sun had just begun its ascent over the city, casting long shadows on the cobblestone streets. Amelia, a tall and determined woman in her early forties, lived for her job. She sipped her coffee as she reviewed the morning paper. An invitation to the grand opening of the "Mysterious Mansion" had caught her eye.
By jay throck2 years ago in Writers
I Love You So Much
In a land long time ago, in the bustling heart of Abuja, the capital of the country, Nigeria, where every woman specs can be found. There was a man named David. He was a dedicated nine-to-five corporate warrior, clad in tailored suits and armed with an unwavering commitment to his job. David's life was regimented, and his routine was his sanctuary. He thrived on structure and predictability.
By Tina Ibekwe2 years ago in Writers
Exploring the Wonders & Mysteries of Amazon
Rainforest"The Amazon rainforest, often referred to as the "lungs of the Earth," is a vast and enchanting ecosystem that has captivated the imagination of scientists, explorers, and adventurers for centuries. It's a place of incredible biodiversity, ancient mysteries, and unique stories waiting to be uncovered. In this journey through the heart of the Amazon, we'll delve into its most fascinating aspects, from the intricate world of Devil's Gardens to enigmatic geoglyphs and the elusive Amazon pink river dolphins.
By Shamsi Aziz Hadwani2 years ago in Writers
Scheming and Thirst for Power: Steven McKnight's Post-9/11 Literature
I’ve written—albeit not well—since I could first clutch a pencil in my little ravioli fist; my mother tells me stories about how before that even happened, I would sit on my grandma’s lap and tell her stories. I have no idea what these stories were about; nobody will tell me. Obviously there is material there that I can use now, and it’s a shame it remains inaccessible to me. That being said, those years are over, and there’s no use mourning something I don’t even remember, right?
By Steven Christopher McKnight2 years ago in Writers
wonder
why don’t they teach us this in school? how to live with ourselves the same way other people can, to talk so much and so little about the same topic or to love them and tell them. We grow up believing we are strange and different if we aren’t like everyone else, that whoever or whatever is clawing inside can never come out because that would be too much for the world. Too “poetic” too “real” too “loud” or too “unrealistic” because whether we like it or not there will never be enough room for more than one interesting person in this god-forsaken world; but as the days get shorter and the pain lingers a little longer; where quiet yet sinful prayers sing and where the children learn to harmonise, somehow I start to wish. I wish I said all the things I was too scared to say and I wish I was kinder. I wish I took breaths slower and I wish I didn’t let it go that deep...How can you bear it? for it has ended me many times over, left me with scars as proof that I am paying for the sins I commit- yet I stay put. rotting away, so that when death stops by he doesn’t see much change, for I deserve what I get. I wonder what’s wrong with me... Tears spilling like a river from lonely, aged eyes, I pause and start to understand why the rain smells so peaceful before it falls, why people hide under store roofs from the blaring sun and how strangers look at each other with such love and understanding even though their name doesn't ring a bell. Some would say that this kind of humanity makes bones ache, and some call it poetry, simply words strung together to make the heart smile, that they roll on tongues and run off fingers smoother than water; others say it's pointless, and spend their time shielded away to heal their salt-covered wounds; but some understand. we are afraid of being stained with feelings, afraid of being stamped with the things going on inside of us because it makes us too vulnerable. emotions smeared in such a way that they describe the feelings we cannot yet say. I wonder what’s wrong with me… And with that, I sink into my own silence because the type of silence that absorbed the rest of the world was always a spoke the loudest. Boring days, an unknown future, and sore eyes make the days pass but nothing changes and no one learns. I wonder where I could've been if I lived in the moment more if I'd spent more mornings making bouquets out of the same flowers tired dads would mow away whilst wrinkling their noses at the weeds, and I wonder when the awe of the day to day faded away and when we stopped believing in our ability to make other people smile, for it is what we were made for; even in illness or in fear, we are made for each other. I wonder what’s wrong with me…I wonder I wonder I wonder…..
By frankie seven2 years ago in Writers
An Open Letter to a Girl Who Thought She Could Write.
Dear August-2016 Me, You think you can write. You probably have even admitted this belief out loud. A few days ago, I found a note from your Third Grade teacher, "You are going to be a great author one day!" All this is actually quite amusing.
By Carmel Kundai2 years ago in Writers
